


Far off sirens

by SinOfPride



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 23:30:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinOfPride/pseuds/SinOfPride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam might be only nine, he might be a kid, but he's far from stupid. Those bruises are someone's hands on his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far off sirens

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _young Dean being too pretty for his own good_. Implied child abuse and non-con.

They've been in town for two months and three weeks but Sam can't say it's been a stay he's enjoyed. 

The school is small and the kids stare at them like freaks just because they're new in the halls. They stare at both him and Dean 'cause they're stuck in the same school this time, the only one in town aside from the new high school they're both too young for. 

Sam doesn't pay their whispers and sneers much mind; it's not the first time and it won't be the last. They live nearby this time, so they walk to school instead of taking the bus. The house they're staying in is a little shabby around the edges, surrounded by over-grown grass and weeds that Dean said he'd take care of when they first got there, but that he never bothered with. The paint is flaking in their room and it smells like mold in the bathroom despite numerous cleanings. As it stands though, it's hardly the worst place they've stayed at, hovering closer to the best end of the spectrum

None of it is the problem. Dean's the problem.

His brother hadn't wanted to come here in the first place and he's been miserable ever since they got here. 

Dean's problem wasn't so much settling in here as it had been leaving their last place. Of course he hadn't said anything to Dad when they were moving, or to Sam for that matter, but Sam wasn't stupid. Dean had been sad to leave and he'd been feeling down from the minute they pulled away from the driveway. 

They'd stayed for almost a year in Arkansas and Dean had made a friend there; this quiet, gloomy kid who was two years older than Dean and a loner. Duncan Sowell. He'd been tall and skinny but wide around the shoulders like a football player, so he'd been left mostly alone in school despite his weirdness. Sam isn't sure how they met, but they'd been inseparable. 

Sam hadn't liked Duncan. He was a dick. But Dean thought he was the coolest thing around and Duncan treated Dean- and only him- like he was someone he actually appreciated, so it'd been okay. Duncan had given Dean a book when they left, _The Catcher in the Rye_ and Sam had caught Dean reading it almost every day since. He'd also given him a Metallica T-shirt for his birthday that Dean had been wearing to sleep in. 

Sam could admit it, he'd been jealous of how much Dean had liked hanging out with the guy, but it'd been kind of cool to see Dean having a friend for a change. It wasn't really standard practice for his brother who was always too quiet, too serious, too disrespectful, too snarky, too edgy-- always too _something_ to draw the right kind of attention at school. 

Teachers and students in every school are rarely indifferent to Dean, though Sam privately thought Dean would rather be spared the kind of attention he draws. But in Arkansas, Dean had been doing good. His grades had been good, he had Duncan to hang out with and Dad was around more. So when they'd left, Dean had been withdrawn and sad.

But as time went on, Sam knew there was more going on than that. In the weeks they've been in Pendroy, Montana, Dean's been sinking into himself. He's gotten paler and quieter since they got here, angrier than Sam's ever seen him and Sam isn't sure what to do.

He can't figure out what's wrong. If he asks nicely, Dean shrugs him off and if he pries, Dean snaps at him and storms out. That's another thing: Dean's been leaving for walks or training or running, throwing himself at any excuse to be outside like he can't bear to be locked in with Sam anymore, like he's so angry he'll slug Sam one if he doesn't wear himself out somehow. It's not normal. Sure, Dean likes to exercise, but not with the intensity or the frequency he's been doing it lately. It's like the walls are closing in on Dean all the time and he needs to go off alone somewhere and run until he's exhausted. 

And the temper lately, Sam doesn't know what to do with it. Neither does Dad apparently, who just punishes Dean with harder training sessions, which Sam suspects is what Dean aims for. 

But Dean is just miserable. Sam's worried about him. He doesn't do as he's told with Dad, he picks fights with Sam every time he opens his mouth, he's taken to skipping school- and Dad might not know about that, but Sam does, and they both know Dad will bust Dean's ass when he finds out- and when he's at school, he doesn't talk. At all. It's freaky. He picks at his food most days and he's not sleeping. Every time Sam gets up to the bathroom, or goes to get a glass of water, or just wakes up suddenly in the middle of the night, Dean's awake. Faking sleep, but awake, body tense like he'd shatter if Sam calls him on his lies.

So Sam hasn't pushed. He's been hoping Dean will get better. For two months and three weeks, Sam hasn't said anything while Dad works all day and Dean gets edgier and edgier. 

That, until the day Sam stumbles into the bathroom half-asleep one morning and Dean's back is to him. Sam can't stop staring. His skin is a mess of bruises and scratches, marked like fingertips all over him, each one like an accusation for every day Sam's let it go. 

And he might be only nine, he might be a kid, but he's far from stupid. Those bruises are someone's hands on his brother. They're large and ugly, layered on him in different shades and what's worse, what Sam can't get over, is the way they darken the closer they are to Dean's hips. Sam doesn't say anything- doesn't know what to say- but he's not stupid and he gets it now. And Dean knows it too, the way he stares at Sam blankly, panic barely discernible in the way he twitches, in the way he won't look at Sam in the eye as he half-hardheartedly tries to angle his body away and mumbles "Don't. Just don't, Sammy. Shut the door. Fuck off."

Sam's not stupid. And he's not staying quiet any longer.

~~~~

John hadn't realized what was happening until Sam spoke up.

Oh, of course he'd noticed something was off with Dean. His normally obedient son had turned into a hellion since they'd set foot in this house, but John had figured it was time to pay his dues after so many years of Dean not giving him a spot of trouble. The terrible teens or some such psych nonsense. 

He'd punished the boy, of course, more than once, but Dean hadn't reigned in his attitude and John had been resigning himself to tense, headache-filled years to come. 

That lasted until Sammy stalked into the kitchen on a dreary October morning, hair disheveled in five different directions but eyes serious, too serious. John had gone on high alert the second those hard eyes landed on his. No nine year old kid should know how to look cold and determined like that. 

Sam was his kid. John wasn't fooled by the stone mask; it was the _terror_ John could see behind a thin veneer of anger and determination what made the coffee he'd been drinking turn to ashes in his mouth. 

"Dad, it's Dean," Sam said, like it was obvious. And maybe it was. Maybe it fucking should have been, at least. 

But the pieces didn't slam into place just with that and when John frowned at his son on confusion, he saw Sammy square his shoulders to report whatever he'd found out. John, expecting something he could righteously angry about, like drugs or a gang or a girl on the side- Dean was 13, but damn was the kid precocious- had been floored by what Sam actually said. 

"Someone's done something to him. Someone's been hurting him."

John hadn't been prepared. And yet _that's_ when the pieces slammed into place in his head, a puzzle he hadn't ever wanted to put together becoming clear the more he thought about it. 

Dean's rebellion, his anger, his sullen, bitter silence. His need to be outside all the time, like he was getting claustrophobic, his need to fight his frustrations out, the need to rebel and be noticed by his family, to draw attention to himself the only way he knew how to do it. 

The need for help.

"Who?" John heard himself saying and at some point he'd gotten to his feet, though he didn't remember doing it. 

Sam had stared up at him, not afraid, but grim, _tired_ and guilty and not like any kid should. Not like a kid at all. When Sam shook his head, John stalked past him and ignored Sam's calls for him to stop, the hand that tried to hold him back from barging into the bathroom. 

Dean hadn't been startled by the entrance. He'd been sitting shirtless at the edge of the old tub, head buried in his hands as if waiting for his world to fall to pieces around him. The sight froze John at the door, because what could he say? He wanted to be angry, but he mostly felt numb as he stared at the map of black and blue hands all over his son's pale skin. Finger marks and scratches, hands on Dean's slim hips and John couldn't breathe the more he looked at them.

"Dean?" He'd asked, because it was a start. His voice sounded choked and low to his own ears, a dying man begging for water.

Dean didn't acknowledge him, rocking himself just a little, face hidden in his hands like he was ashamed. Like he was terrified. _Dean_ looked like a kid at that moment, smaller and younger than Sam who'd been standing next to John in horrified silence, eyes trained on his brother like he'd never seen Dean before. 

The tense silence stretched for what felt like hours. John could hear Dean's breathing in the cramped bathroom, quick and sharp like a cornered rabbit, but Dean wouldn't look at him. John was almost grateful; he didn't know if the words would have come if Dean had been looking at him as he said them. 

"Is it true? Dean, you tell me this instant, son. Has someone-" The word that came to mind wouldn't leave his lips. John could barely bear to think it. He'd never felt more of a coward than in that moment, when he couldn't stand to say out loud what his son had been living through. "Has someone hurt you, Dean? Who gave you those bruises?"

Silence. Dean wouldn't look up and he wouldn't answer, breathing hitching in time with his tiny rocking motions. He was shattering right in front of them and how had John not seen this was going on? How could he have misjudged Dean so badly? John was looking at his soldier, his second in command, and all he saw was a child. A little boy that should have been protected from the human monsters too.

How could something like this have happened to his son when John had been right there the whole time?

He'd wanted Dean to deny it. He'd wanted him to say, 'what are you talking about? I got this playing football, dad!'. But Dean didn't play sports for school. Dean didn't get into fights that could draw the wrong kind of attention to their family. Dean didn't break down over nothing. Dean didn't cry where his family could see him, except for how he did right then. That had been all the confirmation John needed to fill in the blanks. 

Between one blink and the next, Dean had been in his arms and he'd been sobbing despite trying not to, mumbling apologies that stabbed like needles into John's heart. He'd had to sit there and listen to his thirteen year old apologize for being abused, apologize for being found out, apologize for being _difficult_. John had stumbled over the words as he'd tried to shush him and reassure him somehow, fix it somehow. Dean hadn't looked up at John and hadn't said who had done it, but it didn't matter. John would get that son of a bitch and he'd make him pay for every bruise, every tear. 

He could promise his son that much. Both his sons, meeting Sam's shattered eyes over Dean's head. He hadn't known and he hadn't stopped it, but he can promise them that much.


End file.
